


Charge of the Creeping Citadels

by The_Glitchy_Writer



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 11:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Glitchy_Writer/pseuds/The_Glitchy_Writer
Summary: ~~ORIGINAL STORY/WORK~~Lord Ashcrown is the head of the Bloodline of Woodhall, an ancient lineage tracing back centuries through the lands of the West. But turmoil has taken its foothold in the realm, and he has been called upon to defeat the Eastern invaders - Savage, brutish men by the name of the 'Black Sultans'. Lord Ashcrown must defend the city of Malestia from the Sultans with his army of Woodhall Hussars... or else nothing stands between evil and the West.Silence breeds contempt. Contempt breeds disarray. Disarray breeds war.(Hoping this becomes a long, long work, almost a Game of Thrones kind of thing, but with more of a focus on generic heroic fantasy (Magic, swords, adventures, etc.))





	Charge of the Creeping Citadels

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Original story/work. I'm using this site so all of my writing (i.e. fanfiction and non-fanfiction is together in one place)~~
> 
> As explained in the summary, I am hoping this becomes a long, intricate storyline at some point, almost like 'Game of Thrones', but with more of a focus on heroic fantasy (Magic, sorcery, swords, monsters, adventures etc.)

Lord Ashcrown of the Bloodline of Woodhall stood, perched on the edge of the precipice with the wind howling around him like the wolves that always followed suit. He said nothing; the only sound that signalled his still-living being the colossal cloak that billowed in the gale every time he adjusted his weight. His feet were engulfed in plates of iron, causing him to stand at a monstrous seven foot and strike fear into the hearts of any he met on the battlefield. A thick breastplate of beaten steel covered his chest, a new sheet of the metal beginning every few inches down his torso. Over this he placed his battle-cloak, a brown rug that bore the symbol of his Bloodline, flapping endlessly in the cold, almost screaming to see action.

“Why do you wait so long?” a guttural, thick accented voice came from behind. Its owner was Ashcrown’s advisor, Crocton, a shrewd man whose wiry stature betrayed his might on the field. A permanent shock of white hair clung to the top of his head; only a few strands now that he insisted on patting down in the wind. It seemed most of the remaining hair he had retreated south for better warmth, creating a clamped jungle of bristles on his chin that didn’t end until well past his shoulders. Crocton’s intelligence seemed wise beyond even his number of years, and whenever he spoke, it was only right for Ashcrown to listen. He had only got this far with the help of the advisor, who by chance also happened to be his uncle.

“You know me, uncle,” Ashcrown said with a voice of steel, stroking the wisps of brown that bridged the gap between his ears, “I like to give the troops a rest.”  
Crocton sneered at the boy, standing just a few steps behind. Behind him were the secondary guard; a legion five thousand strong that sat on their horses in complete silence. Every few metres a flag stood out from the army, the symbol of the tree and the sword visible from miles around. The helms that covered their faces were white; not to show any mercy or goodness in their hearts, but to blind their enemies before they had time to react. The Woodhall Hussars were known for their short battles; they needed little time before the opposition were thin in numbers, and said not a word. Indeed the soldiers were dubbed ‘The Silent Angels’, but that was more because of the four foot oaken wings fastened to their backs than any pure intent.

The main force, however, more than doubling those atop the hill, was down in the valley below, lined up in several columns like ants sprawling from their nest. They had been in position for what felt like an eternity now. The men were getting restless. Fingers were picking at the wood of their lances. Neighs fell from the horses’ lips as the mounts kicked at the ground, agitated, thirsty for blood. The ground was already trodden into a marsh of mud, and clouds hung low overhead, pooling together in a splotch of never-ending grey. 

“I don’t see why you don’t start the battle already, Ashcrown.”  
When his uncle used the boy’s proper name, the Lord knew he had done something wrong. But he was not going to alter his ways; it was what he did before every battle, and at every battle he had come out the victor. Today would be no different. A storm was already on the way, and the morn began with a sky of pure red; blood would be spilled this day… But not his.

“I keep telling you, Crocton,” he tried to sound as much like the old man as he could, though he had seen not half the moons his uncle had, “I do this to get the men angry.”

“’Angry?’” Crocton blinked, “Why in the name of our ancestors would you want to make your own men angry on the eve such a large and vital battle? If you lose this, then the Sultans gain this valley and there won’t be anything left standing between them and Gallesti. The whole future of our Bloodline could rest on this battle, Ashcrown, and your strategy is to make your own men rowdy? Your father would never have made such an insolent decision.”  
The Lord of Woodhall narrowed his eyes slightly, gripping at the hen of cloak tightly, “Yes, well, my father isn’t here anymore, and the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you will stop challenging my tactics.  
“And I wait so my men get anxious. Restless. Bloodthirsty. They’re natural born warriors, each man encased in a suit of mail since the day they were born. The only ‘toy’ they know is the one with a pommel stone at one end and a sharp point at the other. All they’ve ever been taught is how to fight, and now they’re on the brink of one, they can’t stop themselves. They hate the waiting, more than me. But not because waiting is where the origins of fear start to creep in; because the anger boils over in their blood. If I kept them like this forever, in this… stasis, why I think they’d go mad and turn on eachother. But that is not how battles are won, uncle, all I do is let them wait until they’re dripping at the fangs for war… and then I let them loose.”

The tone in which Ashcrown spoke was no longer one of leadership, it was one of pure savagery. He spoke from experience; he had a hard time restraining himself. He had seen too much battle in his time, too much mindless slaughter. But instead of letting the madness of it take him; he succumbed to the glory, the valour, the honour. It had been too long since a fight like this had called his name, and he had already drawn first blood from his palms, his fingernails digging in anticipation. 

His uncle was silent for a moment, holding a finger to his chin and staring at the boy’s head, “My apologies, my Lord,” he said at last, “you are more like your father than I first thought. But, I must ask, we have been standing here since first light, what ‘signal’ are you waiting for?”

Just then, the city that loomed in the distance, in the throes of a siege – A ninety-day sack that had been fought between the inhabitants of the city of Malestia, the ‘Battalions’, and the invaders, the Eastern ‘Black Sultans’ – went quiet. The frontlines of the Sultans stopped their marching toward the gates, desperate on one last attack to storm the city, and turned around. There were thousands of them, dressed in their black mail and their blue coats, bolstering black hats that stood a foot high from their head. A sea, a whole ocean of darkness greeted them below, and Ashcrown watched intently.

“Move back!” He ordered, “Back, so the Sultans don’t see us. If they discover there’s a secondary troop, they’ll either try and flee through the Eastern Passes or sacrifice their lives to make one final attack at the city. And Malestia won’t hold out against that.”

The five thousand behind them did as they said, the warriors holding back devilish grins as they knew their time had nearly come. Once the legion was obscured from any eyes below in the valley, the Lord of Woodhall strode toward his horse. The beast was covered from neck to hoof in dazzling mail, a standard fixed to its right side. Clutching the wooden pole, he heaved it into a gauntleted fist, lurching for his blade with the other. A squire handed it up to him, as well as his battle-helm. It was the head of the Hussarian Eagle, a piece of pure art and protection. A visor, with two narrow slits for eyes, was lowered over his face.

“Uncle,” he said in a low voice behind the metallic beak, “you asked me what signal to look out for. Now you have it.”

The Lord then called to the messengers at the right wing of the secondary army, “Get a message down to Commander Bolton! Tell him to blow his horn and charge at the enemy with full force! Tell him the secondary guard are right behind him, the Hussars are riding out!”

A scrawny man at the far back of the group nodded his head and made a sprint down the hill, taking the easiest way he could. A silence befell the group again. The calm before the storm, Ashcrown thought.

Taking a deep breath, he turned once more to face the entirety of his legion,  
“Men!” he called, “Today, we will ride out into one of the biggest battles we will ever know! The Black Sultans of the East have decided invading the West is the only thing that will propel their power further, in the names of false gods and cruel ideologies! If they take this valley, if they take Malestia, then we have failed, and our Bloodline will be next. But they will not stop at that, my friends. No, they will march on, and on, until the entire West is conquered and they raise their blasphemous spires and temples to the sky! They will burn our cities down. They will rip brick from mortar, and leave nothing in their wake. Those who do not convert to their beliefs will be struck down without mercy, without remorse… without humanity. They crawl beneath us like moles under the ground, they are cowards at heart, and they will know true terror before the end. They will see the wings of the Woodhall Hussars as we rain down upon them and the light of steel bouncing off our armours… and they will know it is too late!”

Suddenly a bellow came from below in the valley. The horn had been blown… the main force was advancing. The columns of Silent Angels galloped ahead, into the centre of the valley, charging at the Sultan force. A cry rang through the sentries, catching on the wind and reaching the ears of the secondary force above.

“Do you hear that, friends?” Ashcrown roared, “The main force is riding at them now, and if they fail, then it is us who will decide the fate of the West! Many of them, many of you perhaps, will fall today. At the tip of a Sultan sword, no less. But you will not die in vain, you will not be cut down like pigs, you will die with a sword in your hand and honour in your hearts! You fight for gods that are worthy, gods that are real, gods that look down upon us this very day, and offer us protection! We are the Woodhall Hussars, the Silent Angels, the Creeping Citadels! We are the ones who send daggers of terror through the hearts of young boys thousands of miles from here! We are the bedtime stories scared mothers tell their children at night in the hope that they will not grow up to fight back! Our steel is written in the tomes of old, our wings are etched in the books of fate, our swords are weapons of divine justice that no one can take from us! You rally this day for every child, every wife, every person you have ever known, so that they will never have to face such an evil. The Sultans are a blight, a parasite that takes what it can, and burrows down into the ground. Well today we say no more! Today we will write new chapters in the archives, in the memorials of history. ‘The Battle of Malestine Valley’, they will call it. And they will sing of our victory in it for centuries to come! Ride now, my brothers, join me on the battlefield, for honour, for glory! For Woodhall!”

“FOR WOODHALL!” the scream erupted through the legion, pointing their blades at the air and kicking into their reins. Lord Ashcrown stared down at the valley below, forcing his horse into a canter, then a gallop, then a sprint. Down the mountainside he led his troops to war.

“Let us show the protection their gods really offer them.”


End file.
